


always, with undying love, yours

by orionseye



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Ancient Rome, Fluff, M/M, Past Lives, henry is a gay history nerd and you can tell, this is the weirdest thing i will ever publish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionseye/pseuds/orionseye
Summary: Henry knows his gay history. He’s spent a lifetime learning it in secret. He remembers quietly checking out textbooks from the library, hiding his well-annotated copy of Maurice in fear that someone would notice it. He remembers sneaking away from school groups in museums to study certain sculptures, certain figures, for a little longer than the rest of the class. Henry remembers that part of his coming of age better than anything else. How could he forget?
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	always, with undying love, yours

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy oh boy yall are in for something weird with this one
> 
> thank you to the rwrb gray area server for this idea? concept? whatever you want to call it. i had so much fun writing this argh
> 
> \- ori

Alex never sleeps well.

He never has. Not for as long as Henry has known his sleeping habits, at least.

Alex used to call Henry far too late at night, back before either of them really had a name for what was simmering under their skin. Henry would always pick up after counting three, perfectly complete _ring_ s from his phone. He didn’t want to look too eager, after all. The naivety of it all is horribly hilarious to look back at.

Tonight seems to be an exception to Alex’s usual bad sleeping patterns. Henry finds himself counting Alex’s steady breaths in an eerily identical manner to the way he’d count before picking up the phone. Four seconds in, four seconds out.

It seems like a past life from where Henry’s standing, the doubting and questioning and the goddamn arguing. But here he is, pressed behind Alex, arms wrapped protectively around his waist, like not even two years ago they were at each other’s throats. It hardly feels possible.

That’s the thought he’s ruminating on as he falls asleep. The steady rain outside of the brownstone window, Alex’s breathing; It’s all so familiar, Henry could almost swear he’s loved Alex for more than a lifetime.

  
  


~

The sun shines when Henry opens his eyes.

Well, _where_ he opens his eyes. The grassy hills ahead of him certainly aren’t New York. He lies on a blanket, two ornate goblets of wine and expensive cheeses carefully organized to his left. He knows, somehow, that this is special. He’s not sure why.

Henry looks down at himself, his body. It’s slightly familiar. He knows the scar on his knee from when he fell off a bike as a kid, the freckles that spot his arms. But it’s not quite right. It’s not quite _him_. He’s shorter, with a stronger build. It’s like some alternate reality, where Henry isn’t really Henry at all. 

A halo of curls appear on the horizon. A figure carrying a basket, walking in his direction.

He’d recognize that boy anywhere. It’s Alex.

Except, as ‘Alex’ gets closer, Henry realizes it’s not.

They bear a resemblance, sure. The same glow of golden-brown skin in the sun, the same warm brown eyes. But it’s not him. He’s taller, his hair longer than Henry has seen Alex’s in years. His features, too, are not quite right. His nose, the corners of his mouth, they’re sharper than Alex’s, more assertive. 

He’s beautiful regardless. Henry knows he’s seen him before, but he isn’t quite sure where.

The boy seats himself on the opposite edge of the blanket. Henry wants to say something, but he can’t.

The basket, he realizes, yields a bottle. _Wine_.

He fills both of their glasses. 

“Pulchra dies, non est illud?” _Beautiful day, isn’t it?_

Latin?

Henry hasn’t heard anyone speak Latin since high school. He’d picked it up along with French, but a dead language is dead for a reason. People don’t usually spark up conversations like they’re Ancient Roman emperors.

And suddenly he knows who he’s talking to.

His mouth responds before his mind can catch up. “Etiam, est.” 

_Yes, it is._

Henry knows his gay history. He’s spent a lifetime learning it in secret. He remembers quietly checking out textbooks from the library, hiding his well-annotated copy of _Maurice_ in fear that someone would notice it. He remembers sneaking away from school groups in museums to study certain sculptures, certain figures, for a little longer than the rest of the class. Henry remembers that part of his coming of age better than anything else. How could he forget?

Antinous sips his wine in silence, studying the gentle slopes of the horizon. His curls are perfectly tousled in the breeze. Henry fights the urge to reach out and touch it. 

He’s almost appalled he didn't recognize him earlier. He remembers learning this story as clear as day: an emperor who runs away from his duties to spend the rest of his life with his gay lover. Truly, the life of his dreams. The similarities between the two of them certainly explain why he’s here, filling in the shoes of Emperor Hadrian. 

It’s a perfect day. Henry isn’t quite sure where he is, but he wants to stay here forever. Antinous has a face made to be printed on money, a body made for worship. Henry wants to spend every second of the next few hours memorizing it. He wants to know how the curve of his waist feels when cupped in his hands, how the wine they’re drinking tastes on his lover’s tongue.

“Nos relinquere cras.”

_We leave tomorrow._

Antinous says this with joy. Henry knows he shouldn’t.

“Scio.”

_I know._

He does know, truly. He knows that they’re leaving. He knows where they’re going.

He’s going to die. 

Henry wants to warn him, to tell him what’s going to happen. They could stay here forever. It doesn’t have to happen. 

But it will. 

Henry tries to open his mouth, but it stays shut. He tries to reach over, but his hands are rooted into place. 

Antinous dies whether or not Henry wants him to.  
  


Maybe this is their last moment of peace. Why ruin it?

Henry shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath. He tries to remember it all before it falls away from him completely.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s somewhere completely different. 

The walls of the room he’s in are lined with expensive furniture: a couch with horribly tacky golden details, an overflowing bookshelf. He recognizes the gray morning light streaming in through the narrow windows as distinctly European. Maybe he’s in England, or maybe it’s France; he’s not quite sure. 

He’s in a large bed, sitting up against the headboard. He reaches over, and the pillow besides him is cool to the touch. He slept alone. Henry knows that there’s someone he wishes he woke up with by the sinking feeling in his chest. 

There are heavy footsteps in the hallways outside of his room. Henry holds his breath. Someone knocks twice at the heavy door, then slips a piece of paper under the crack at the bottom. The footsteps continue past him.

_Mail._

He gets up from where he’s sitting to pick it up from the floor. There’s a detailed wax stamp on the front. It’s ruby red, with small birds: a family crest. Henry runs his thumb over it fondly. He knows, somehow, that he’s been waiting for this letter. It takes every fiber of his being to stay patient and not open it right here, right now.

He returns back to his spot in bed, and shuffles through his bedside drawer for a letter opener. He finds one, and carefully lifts the seal of the envelope.

He takes the letter out, and runs his fingers across the thick parchment. The contents are written in fine cursive. 

**_My Own Boy,_ **

**_Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing._ **

Henry knows this letter. Oscar Wilde to Alfred Douglas, 1893. He’s read it a million times before. He can almost recite it from memory. 

**_Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days._ **

He almost sent this quote to Alex once. It felt too forward at the time, too sweet, too heartsick. Henry felt like it said _I love you_ more earnestly than he ever could. He knows now, on the receiving end of it, how true that fear was. 

**_Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury?_ **

Henry can’t believe this was written about him.

**_Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to Salisbury first._ **

**_Always, with undying love, yours,_ **

**_Oscar_ **

Henry holds the letter tight to his chest, to the too-fast beating there. There’s a sweetness coursing through his veins, a tenderness in the ache of his heart. In this moment, holding the letter in his hands, ink still fresh on the page, he knows he’s loved more surely than he knows his own name. 

He closes his eyes, and tries to savor the feeling, but it slips away from him before he can remember what it even was. 

When he opens them, he’s no longer alone.

He’s on a stage. There’s a huge, roaring crowd in front of him. Oh dear.

He knows he’s far too sober for this. Henry would never get on any stage willingly without being totally, completely, incredibly, blackout drunk. But here he is, a blue acoustic guitar in his hand. There’s a band behind him. They’re playing the introduction to a song that seems familiar, but in his panic, Henry can’t recognize it.

Thank god, his body knows what to do, even though his mind is miles and miles behind. 

_“I'm up on the eleventh floor,”_ Henry sings, _“And I'm watching the cruisers below.”_

_Bowie?_

The crowd goes wild, and Henry smiles despite himself. 

He settles into it, “ _He's down on the street, And he's trying hard to pull sister Flo.”_

His mouth and hands move like it’s muscle memory, though Henry has no recollection of ever playing this song before. He takes a backseat in his own body and lets himself enjoy it all. He sings like he’s never sung before.

A pair of brown eyes catch his own in the crowd. The man holds his gaze. Henry winks at him. It’s a small enough gesture, but if the crowd wasn’t already loud before, they sure as hell are now.

That little act says everything. It says _meet me after the show_ and _you’re the prettiest boy I have ever seen,_ or at least Henry hopes. Because he truly is a sight; even in a crowd of dozens of other bodies, he stands out. His sweaty curls are stuck to his forehead, and his pupils are blown, with admiration, or maybe even arousal. The neon lights of the venue reflect off of his dark skin like this is all he’s made for: dancing, singing, screaming. Henry would do anything for him, _to_ him, if this stranger allows it. He’ll have more fun taking him apart than he’s had in a very, very long time. He’s sure of it. 

The song ends before Henry’s even aware it has. The audience’s whoops and cheers fill him to his core. He stretches his arms out besides him, basking in the spotlight. He closes his eyes for one, final time. 

~

Henry wakes up in a cold sweat.

He rolls over to check the clock on his bedside table. It’s barely three in the morning. He rolls back onto his back with a _thump_. 

Alex, ever the light sleeper, mumbles from beside him. 

“Go back to bed, love.”

Alex responds with a collection of noises that Henry is certain are not actually words. He laughs a little. 

Alex rolls over to face him, eyes still puffy with sleep. It seems to take all of his energy to say a few words. “You good?” he croaks.

“I had a dream I was David Bowie.”

Alex laughs. “You woke me up for that? Fucker.”

Henry grins, and presses a soft kiss into Alex’s forehead. “I’ll tell you more about it in the morning. Sleep.”

And so they do.

It's the best sleep Henry has had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> i might delete this soon oop


End file.
